


i can leave behind the harbour

by orphan_account



Category: GP2 Series RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi, fucking massive puppy pile orgy basically lads, lovely stuff eh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:50:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Fuck F1, if they don’t want his boys - panting against Alex’s skin, Mitch can feel hands all over him and he wants - he wants something. For all of them. Or maybe he just wants all of them, right now, because they are his and he made this happen and he doesn’t want to lose them or it, not quite yet. Wants to take care of them one last time.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeswecoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeswecoffee/gifts).



> Title from Bon Iver's 8 (Circle)
> 
> we've galvanised the squall of it all/i can leave behind the harbour
> 
> I'm sorry this is late, Sally. But it is fucking smuttier than hell so hopefully that makes up for it. <3

Mitch moves, which is a horrible mistake. He's had hangovers before, even beaten-up-from-racing, dehydrated-in-the-desert ones and he's not totally sure yet if this one is  _ the worst  _ but it's definitely top five. Aside from anything else, his back hurts where someone seems to be sleeping with their legs hooked over him. 

And he's drooling on someone's arm. In fact the more he tries to identify which of the limbs he's in a pile with actually belong to him, the more he realises how sticky all of them are, how screwed up the expensive sheet he's sprawled on is and well, there are some  _ good  _ aches amidst the bad. 

He feels whoever has their legs on his back move, grateful for the sudden lack of pressure and extremely fond when he hears Ollie whisper “morning babe, c’mere.” The mattress dips with the weight of bodies shifting together and some contented, sleepy, affectionate noises say that surely-extremely-manly snuggling is taking place.

Ok, so. Ollie and that can only have been Sergey. The arm he's slept on is too buff and too close to his own skin colour to be anyone other than Sean. Who else? 

He wriggles a leg, experimentally, wincing at the pins and needles and gets a grumpy, huffy noise he recognises. Pierre, which means Stoffel and the hand he's holding over Sean's waist must be Antonio. So where’s-

“Mitch, I'm going to tie you up if you don't stay still.  _ Please.” _

Alex sounds hoarse, wrecked and a lot pleading. He ignores the order - because that'd only work as a threat if Lynn didn't  _ know  _ he'd be well into that - and looks across to see Alex threading his fingers through Artem’s hair, the Russian's nose pressed into his collarbone. 

He unlinks his hand from Antonio's, lets Sean and him move to cuddle up together completely. Because he knows what Alex wants, insecure and feeling the precipice of  _ what the fuck do they do now?  _

Mitch had promised her he'd look after him - he can prolong the last night of GP2 as long as Ace needs. He rolls over, ignores Pierre’s sleepy protest as he disentangles his legs enough to cuddle up to Alex, kiss him dry mouthed and lazily. 

Ace is warm, their skin close to slick in the… fuck, it’s probably not far off midday heat. They all kind of smell, of sex and each other and champagne and all the greasy petrol smells that don’t really come off you until you’ve showered a few times and several different flavours of ‘for nice occasions’ aftershave that’s smeared into a perfumed melange on their skin.

It’s not like it’s never happened before but it’s been a little while, so much preoccupation in this season and a little bit of couples splitting off. Just when he’d wanted to be closer to Alex they’d ended up a little further apart and Mitch wishes they weren’t going separate ways, not quite yet - he still wants Alex, still kind of  _ needs  _ him sometimes, when he’s lonely and bleary-eyed in yet another airport. And Alex needs  _ him  _ \- kind of, when he doesn’t have her. Which they’re still working out and maybe it’s for the best.

Mitch is feeling hungover and shitty enough to admit he  _ wants  _ Alex, though - they might be kind of disgusting but leaning over to half-roll-onto Ace, trying to avoid elbowing Artem in the face, he just wants to kiss him deeply enough to keep them all here. Not forever - they’ve got races ahead of them - but just… five more minutes, somehow.

He smiles against Alex's mouth as he hears some muttered Spanish from what he thinks is the sofa, Dany and Carlos clearly having made a bid for freedom without actually finding their clothes. And ok, yeah, he remembers what happened now. 

Ace had won, so obviously Mitch was going to blow him. That's an absolute minimum. Nevermind they're both leaving, there are standards to uphold, traditions to pass on to the rookies, everyone ought to know the noises Mitch can coax out of someone against a tyre wall, with his mouth. 

Alex had looked so lost, like he didn't want to come in case that ‘ _ what now?’  _ happened. So obviously Mitch had stroked his cock while he whispered filthy promises to him about what they'd do later, how much he'd missed Alex coming in him, how they ought to get Artem involved for old time's sake until Ace was groaning and coming down the back of his throat after a couple of rough thrusts. 

And then they'd found some champagne - proper stuff, not the podium swill. Mitch might have sat on Alex's lap to drink it, sharing it between their mouths in sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. Ace had ended up giggly and cuddly and as loved up as they've ever been and Mitch could never say no to him anyway. 

Which was how they'd ended up stumbling into a room where Ollie and Sergey seemed to be having their own, more intense version of things. Mitch definitely prefers blow jobs and cuddles to being shoved against a wall, choked (and it looked like pretty firmly spanked, earlier) and - well, no, he’s down with this bit - fucked within an inch of his life, maybe just not by Rowland. But Sirotkin had seemed fucking into it and like - clearly Alex never got into that bit of Renault but fair play to them both.

Ollie had looked at them coolly for a second as they clattered through the door, grabbed Sergey’s chin and snarled “ _ Did I say you could look away?”  _ and then fucked him until they both half sobbed through an orgasm, collapsing.

Mitch had found himself cuddling Alex from behind, watching Ollie whisper stuff to Sergey, holding him to his chest. Alex’s heartbeat had been a little too fast, a bit fluttery, his body full of tension - Mitch trying to keep his erection away from the back of Ace’s thighs, not wanting to spook him until he’d got impatient and pulled Mitch round against him.

His gasp had made Sergey and Ollie look up and well, this was hardly the first time they’d all ended up together. It’s no secret Ollie likes Alex’s dick and when it had descended into four-way heavy petting on the floor he and Alex had ended up as naked as the other two pretty quickly.

Maybe it was what they needed - to all go a bit wild, the way they used to. He’d imagined a dignified night of fucking honeymoon-style with Alex, maybe sacking off the party even - not like they haven’t both been before, not like it felt like the graduation ceremony they’d hoped it would be. Celebrating moving on is one thing but it’s not a communal pride effort.

Lying back on Sergey’s chest, Alex propped on his thighs, he’d checked his phone. Which had been full of Sean and Artem - as unlikely a hookup as it was inevitable - looking somewhat involved. Or at least, spunk covered. And two panicked messages from Stoffel about whether anyone had seen Pierre, which all only took a little bit of interpersonal maths to work out the square of. 

By the party he’d had his hands down pretty much everyone’s pants, including a cupboard-based frisson with Toro Rosso that he hadn’t really been able to believe Alex had gone for but apparently him and Kvyat had some kind of history that Mitch  _ really  _ ought to ask about one day. There hadn’t seemed like a point to even tucking his shirt back in, by the time he’d slunk in to find a beer, Ace’s arm round Artem’s neck despite that  _ ludicrous  _ shirt.

They’d found Antonio and Pierre engaged in some sort of high-stake flirt-mauling that looked as though it had already escalated to competitive handjobs at least once. Stoff and Sean had largely given up on separation attempts and just got in on things - Sean’s fingers through Antonio’s beltloops just providing him with something reassuring to lean back against while their rivalry finally spilled into dry-humping each other.

Then there was a bit of a blank. It might have been something to do with Ricciardo appearing and insisting Mitch had some tequila, which had seemed like a really, really terrible idea at the time and still did. Except that that had somehow covered the bit of the evening where he’d apparently rounded them all up by the pool and arranged a load of couch cushions so they could sprawl on them and look at the sky, Artem spilling sticky cocktail on his jeans and pinning him into Alex’s lap, where they were both very insistent he had to stay. 

They’d migrated to Ollie’s room, with its insanely huge bed. Or maybe Sergey’s room, actually - this doesn’t really look like Ollie’s style but then neither does anything in Abu Dhabi. 

If anyone had any clothes on by the time they’d even got there, they hadn’t soon after - drunken cuddling turning clumsily sexy as they heaped onto the bed and everyone’s skin got all over everyone else’s. 4am and drunk is not the time for anything fancy. He’d ended up grinding on Alex’s lap, Artem behind, humping his ass until they’d come over each other in a sweaty, alcohol-swimming mess, bodies collapsing around them.

Carlos had been stroking his hair when he’d fallen asleep, his head pillowed on one heavily-furred thigh. He’d been trying to lick come off the Spaniard’s fingers but warm, sated and surrounded by the boys he’s spent the last four years fucking is too comfy a position for theatrics. 

It feels so good, for feeling - bodily, at least - disgustingly bad. Alex pulls him closer and Mitch is so close to whining, to clawing at Alex and demanding whoever’s-room-this-is closes the blinds and orders room service for about 15 minutes time. He  _ needs  _ Alex inside him - group humping is great and all but this is still their (maybe) last weekend and he doesn’t give a shit if everyone else watches them fuck. Make love, even - whatever, he’s allowed.

He’s so lost in feeling soppy and dramatic and - just possibly - still a bit drunk that he nearly falls onto Alex, suddenly unbalanced when Pierre (or someone) grabs his ankle, making Ace catch him and then it’s a chain reaction. Artem startles awake, knees Stoffel, which disturbs Sean and Antonio and for fuck’s sake. Now he’s just kneeling on the bed with his arse in the air and Alex holding him.

“Morning,” Ollie sounds suspiciously cheery for anyone with a hangover anything like Mitch’s. 

“Err, hi?” Mitch doesn’t bother looking round, stays half-hunched over Alex - it’s not like no one here’s seen his arse before. Artem reaches up to pet his hair, Alex shifting to put his other arm around the Russian and ok, that’s how it is. 

He jumps slightly, when someone grabs his hip and a second later - gross, ok, that can literally  _ only  _ be Sean, king of not-caring-too-much-about-sweat, licking Mitch’s ass so slowly and wetly he can’t possibly be as dehydrated as Mitch feels. He whines, tucking his head into Alex’s neck and letting Artem carry on stroking his hair.

He can’t believe it, really - four years of rounding these useless fuckers up, loosely sorting them into couples and teaching them the gentle art of blow jobs and he’s going to have to let them all go their own ways. Which he knew - they wouldn’t all make it to F1, no way - it was just shit that none of them would.

Fuck F1, if they don’t want his boys - panting against Alex’s skin he can feel hands all over him and he wants - he wants  _ something.  _ For all of them. Or maybe he just  _ wants  _ all of them, right now, because they  _ are  _ his and he made this happen and he doesn’t want to lose them or it, not quite yet. Wants to take care of them one last time.

His face is suddenly wet and for a second he assumes it’s come because frankly why not at this point? But it’s Carlos, tipping a bottle of water against Alex’s mouth, then his. Lapping thirstily, he only slightly sprays it over Artem’s face when someone sticks a wet finger in him. 

He feels slutty and still-drunk and doesn’t care, lost in sensation and attention and feeling not exactly pliant but like he wants to be filled by them, take them inside him one last time. Alex slaps the hand on Mitch’s dick away, shakes his head and says something Mitch can’t be bothered to listen to, pulls him closer and kisses him as Sean pushes in. It must be Sean, no one else is quite that tall - or that smooth-balled, where they’re rubbing againt his thigh. 

He vaguely hopes condoms are involved because if they’re all going to fuck him - and he’s pretty sure that’s what Alex said - then that’s going to get sloppy. He loves them but a man has actual capacity limits, unless they’re going to come  _ on  _ him which is kind of hot, even if he’s never admitting that  _ ever. _

He’s jostled a bit, from just lying on Alex and enjoying being fucked, so that Sean can kiss Artem. Which is really hot, in a seriously unexpected way, the Russian threading his fingers through Sean’s hair, almost romantic - which they can’t be, unless he’s missed something major - he’s pretty sure the only time they fucked was last night and what about Antonio?

Sean’s legs jog against his arse and oh,  _ that’s  _ what’s about Antonio - they always have each other’s backs, Mitch can feel Antonio’s hand on his hip, pulling him against Sean for a better angle. He makes a disgruntled noise because this is all nice but he’d quite like to get fucked now, if they’re all doing him then there’s no time for messing around being passionate but Alex just strokes his hair as Sean fucking  _ pulls out.  _

“What?” Mitch can’t help the huffy tone - what the fuck was that? He wants to be- oof. Ok, at least there’s someone back inside him.

It’s definitely Sergey, almost as furry as Carlos and with calloused, warm hands on Mitch’s hips. Sergey fucks like it’s an artform - like he’s concentrating on it, intense and athletic and so  _ good,  _ deep and  He whimpers against Alex, kind of hoping Ace is gonna wank him off but he just gets cuddled closer, Artem pulling on his hair to make their mouths meet. 

“Make him loud- he fucking loves your dick, babe.” Ollie coaching Sergey to fuck him is  _ ridiculously  _ hot, knowing they’re all watching and he almost doesn’t want to moan but also he  _ does  _ fucking love Sergey’s dick. It’s such a rarity, compared to his usual fucks and he’s pretty sure he’d be happy just to get fucked by Alex for the rest of his life anyway but variety is the spice of life or whatever. 

It feels ridiculously good, he mewls into Artem’s mouth, scrabbles at Alex and ends up sprawling so Ace’s dick is against his inner thigh, Sergey holding up his hips to slowly, deeply plow into him. Alex shifts a bit, grinding up against him and kind of juggling Mitch against his chest to pull him closer, stop him kissing Artem so he’s just crying out into the room every time Sergey’s dick hits the good spot.

He’s getting no friction at all on his own dick, half-suspended between Alex and the Russian fucking him but it’s kind of delicious to draw it out, no hope of coming but every chance this is going to feel really good for  _ ages.  _

Someone touches his arm and he opens his eyes to look across at Sean covering Antonio, the Italian’s legs tangled round his hips, Sean’s teeth against his neck. Ok, so not just him getting - oh  _ god  _ \- fucked. 

“Please-” he gets cut off by Alex dragging him closer, mumbles into his chest instead of finishing his plea. Which is probably for the best because he has no idea what he was really asking for, except that Sergey fucking him harder was definitely somewhere in there. 

“Come on, come in him - I want to fuck your mouth.” Ugh, why does everything sound dirtier when it’s Ollie? Mitch knows he’s the stealth second-in-line to the Paddock Bicycle title but he seems so innocent some of the time and it makes filth so much filthier. 

Sergey picks up the pace and Mitch has the distinct feeling Ollie might be choking him, from the noises he’s making. If it wasn’t for Alex cuddling him he’d feel kind of like a rag doll, Sergey fucking him roughly and not quite with his usual artifice but all the force that feels fucking  _ good.  _ And hideously wanton, sprawled and noisy and maybe Alex will fuck him next? He fucking wants Alex.

Sergey comes with a series of jerky thrusts and the vague relief that condoms are definitely in play, a final jolt against his prostate leaving Mitch flopped onto Alex and whining, trying to wriggle enough to rub their dicks together as Sergey pulls out. It’s to no avail, Artem joining in on holding him still and fuck if the lanky bastards aren’t pretty good at pinning him down. 

(Which has its advantages, certainly.)

“No, let him go - I don’t like, like this” Oh, Pierre? He didn’t expect Pear to want to - oof, Alex manhandling him is hot and all but he’s suddenly not quite sure which way is up. 

Turned round and on his knees, he’s suddenly  _ really  _ aware of them all watching him, even Sean and Antonio looking up from some post-coital spooning. Mitch’s cock feels painfully hard and now he’s not being fucked the slick, open feeling is enough to make him whine, almost panicking until Alex cuddles up behind him. 

Pierre is grinning wickedly, Stoffel gazing up at him, reclined against the headboard and clearly still a bit love-drunk (or possibly drunk-drunk) from his boyfriend’s win. Ok, Mitch knows what to do about this, he isn’t getting fucked by Pear - he’s probably just about got control of his gag reflex enough for this.

Pierre gasps when he leans forward and licks his cock, hard against his stomach - and now Mitch is bent over enough to grind back against Alex, too, getting a fond moan and a hand on his hip that’s probably trying to be preventative. He’s made Ace come by rubbing up against him before, Alex probably doesn’t want to be embarrassed over how much he likes Mitch’s arse, especially when he’s a bit lubed up still.

He looks up at Pierre through his eyelashes, sticks his tongue out to lick again and then swallows Pear’s cock when he feels the Frenchman’s fingers go into his hair. He’s never actually blown Pierre before, their encounters always a bit grope-focussed before and then not really existent since Stoffel entered the picture. 

On the other hand, his oral CV is pretty extensive and he doesn’t  _ think  _ Pierre has any kinks weirder than he knows how to deal with. Definitely not a bigger cock than he can swallow, without wanting to be rude - even with a fairly rough thrust against his still-a-bit-dry throat, he’s in no danger of choking. 

It does feel kind of great, though, taking the pressure off performing himself to let Pierre fuck himself to the centre of attention. Looking up, Pierre looks both kind of shocked at himself and extremely turned on, closing his eyes and dropping his head forward as he thrusts into Mitch’s mouth. 

Everything’s gone a bit quiet, Alex’s thumbs rubbing over his hips the only physical link he has to the world beyond himself and Pierre. The air’s filled with Pierre’s bitten-lip moans and the wet sound of his dick sliding in Mitch’s mouth, Mitch’s own snatched breaths panted into damp air, spit building on his lips. 

He hears Stoffel groan, presumably wanking himself off at the sight of Pierre fucking Mitch’s mouth and he can just hear Ollie whispering to Sergey that he’s going to come, that it’s going on his face for being a good boy. God, those two are… heavy. 

Pierre grabs at his hair more harshly, whimpers, thrusts hard and Mitch tries not to dribble spunk anywhere - he’s a consummate whore, he can swallow nicely. He closes his eyes to let Pierre’s cock fall out of his mouth, leaning into Alex drawing circles on his hips with his thumbs. He knows what’s about to happen, really wants it but he needs a second first.

Artem lies down next to where he’s kneeling, the Russian on his back, looking up at Mitch with a breathless, turned on expression. “Can you fuck me?”

Alex’s hand moves from Mitch’s hip to stroke his cock and he shudders, suddenly aware of how turned on he is again. “Can you wait to come?”

Fuck, Ace never says things like that - Alex is like the king of filthy texts and then can hardly stutter his way through asking which of them’s gonna top. Just for him, then. Mitch nods, feels Alex squeeze the base of his cock tight, to give him the idea as he kneels up and looks for a condom. 

Sean passes him the stuff, looking kind of… eager. He glances round at them all and immediately regrets it- they’re all way too keen to watch this and he’s a show off but holy shit, he’s hungover here give him a fucking break. 

He moves to kneel over Artem, rolls his legs back until they’re hooked loosely round Mitch’s hips, gets on with slicking up fingers while he kisses the Russian. ‘Tem is kind of his favourite - except that Alex is and they all are but Artem has always been kind of a wild hookup. 

Mitch usually bottoms - he’s small and he fucking loves it, so in a crowd of overgrown bastards with pretty great dicks he kind of knows what the optimum configuration is. But with Artem, it’s always been this way - Mitch’s fingers making the Russian throw his head back and moan for more, beg for Mitch’s dick. 

Artem clings to him like he’s an anchor in a storm, always looks up at him with such total trust - them fucking is fun, of course but it always seems a bit more meaningful than, say, when Sean does him in the back of the garage. He’s not sure what he feels about it with an audience but at the same time, he can feel the tug of Artem  _ needing  _ him.

He pulls back his fingers, kisses across Artem’s neck and rolls the condom down his own dick, circling his finger and thumb at the base for a second and trying to remind himself he wants to come with Alex, isn’t quite young enough to go twice in a few minutes anymore.

He nearly says something to Artem, they usually dirty-talk but ‘Tem looks overwhelmed as he pushes in and just drags him into a breathless kiss, whimpering into Mitch’s mouth. He feels so tight, so hot that Mitch has to seriously remind himself to think of Mark fucking Christian or something and calm himself down. 

Ok, he needs to get a grip and make Artem come before he does - goes straight to matching his thrusts with a slick hand on his ex-teammate’s dick. Artem tightens his arms round him, gasps against his mouth and Mitch can hear the others moving around, bodies moving to rub against each other, cuddles turning hot again while they’re watching. 

He’s cocky enough that it makes him grin - of course it looks fucking hot, Artem’s a secret sex god when you get him out of the awful clothes and Mitch is good at fucking, great at making Artem a bit desperate and wild. He guesses he’d been doing ...something with Alex while Mitch was blowing Pierre, maybe just being allowed to hump him but whatever it was, Artem’s dick was already dark and leaking before Mitch got his fingers in him, which is just as well for his stamina and pride’s sakes.

Artem’s getting noisy, not kissing him anymore so much as just whining into his mouth. Mitch moves away to bite his collarbone, licking the sweat of his skin and then tries  _ really  _ hard not to come when Artem clenches around him, shakes  and covers Mitch’s fingers with spunk. 

Fuck. He’s so close he doesn’t know if he can pull out without coming, for a second, panting against Artem’s shoulder while he feels Alex square up behind him. Surely he’s not gonna literally fuck Mitch on  _ top  _ of Artem? Cus that’s weirdly hot but seems uncomfortable for the Russian, if nothing else. 

“Come here,” Alex practically scoops him up - those fucking arms, they’re ridiculous and great - and pulls Mitch off Artem, to flop forwards against the sheet, on his hands and knees again. He’s running with sweat and he’s still got Artem’s come on his left hand, which Sergey casually leans over to lick and Mitch has to try to think un-sexy thoughts again for a few seconds. 

If this is the last fuck with Alex - and he’s never really sure where they are, especially now - then he’d thought it might be a bit more romantic and desperately sad. But maybe it’s best, seeing out the end surrounded by them all. He can even see Carlos and Dany, in his peripherary vision, cuddling on the sofa with Dany’s fingers stroking through Carlos’ hair. If those two held it together this year, maybe him and Alex can? Somehow. 

He closes his eyes when Ace pulls him back against him, guides his cock into Mitch. Christ but Alex’s dick feels better than anyone’s - Mitch loves him, loves them all but he’d fucking  _ marry  _ Alex, have stupid, cute, spiky-haired babies with him. Put photos of them kissing under confetti on the mantlepiece, find out what all that fucking cutlery in his parents’ house is for, take his stupid fucking name if it meant Alex would come home to him. 

This has been his home, for four years - his boys, his races and he fucking fought to move on but there’s a bit of him that would stay, if they could. Stay in this hotel room with Alex’s arms round him, Alex’s dick inside him and nothing but their shared, harsh breathing mattering as Ace moans against the back of his neck. 

Ace whispers something and Mitch just wants to make him come, make him feel so good he never leaves him, make Mitch believe for a second that Alex loves him as much as he loves the lanky asshole. He clenches deliberately, arches against Alex and then sobs, because he can’t stop himself coming, as Ace grabs his hip and he just hopes it drags him along.

Alex bites down on his shoulder, pushes his dick in so hard Mitch nearly whimpers, still shuddering through his orgasm. Then shudders again, when he feels Alex’s come in him and fuck it’s gross but it feels like Ace claiming him, saying he’s the one who gets to come in Mitch, possessive and intimate and Mitch throws his head back, sobs again as Alex’s cock pushes against his prostate a few last times. 

Please don’t let this be it. He isn’t ready, he still wants Ace and he  _ needs  _ him, all of them, this. Moving on is fine but he doesn’t want things to be final. 

“You fucking idiot, Mitch,” Alex can barely breathe, is murmuring against his ear, “it’s you who never uses the key I gave you, I’m fucking trying to get to Formula E with you.”

Mitch half-collapses on him, leaning back against Alex’s chest, heaving in the hot air for more than just exertion. Fuck, he doesn’t know what to say.

They stay like that and Mitch half-thinks everyone else might leave, then remembers it’s not his room, hears them all start moving around and muttering conversations about room service to each other. Alex’s arms are still around him, pressing their bodies close and Mitch feels sappily secure, Alex’s nose pressed into his sweat-soaked hair. 

Ace huffs, seems to pull himself together and shuffles back, pulling out and making Mitch moan again, eyes still closed as Ace picks him up into what he will let absolutely no one ever call a bridal lift. 

“Come on, shower. You know this is only just starting.”


End file.
